


Three Fourths of a Mile

by bethagain



Series: December Stories [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: / or & you choose the goggles, 31 Days of Ineffables, Advent Fic, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, London, Memories, Snow, frost fairs on the thames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 15:22:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethagain/pseuds/bethagain
Summary: It’s January, 1963, and England is covered in snow. It’s a good day for staying indoors, where it’s cozy and warm. But maybe it gets a little lonely, too.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: December Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561195
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	Three Fourths of a Mile

**Author's Note:**

> Another ficlet for the Good Omens 31 Days of Ineffables advent challenge. Today's prompt was _snow._

“The Thames is frozen.” Crowley leaned one hip on the windowsill in his Mayfair flat, right shoulder against the icy window glass, telephone handset hunched between his other shoulder and his ear. Three stories down, snow already covered the sidewalk. Big, fluffy snowflakes filled the air, swirling gently.

“Hello to you too, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, at the other end of the phone line.

Crowley rested the base of the phone on his thigh. The telephone cable, covered in black braided cloth, stretched away to the jack in the opposite wall. 

It was one of those touch-tone telephones. Brand new, just out this past year, no more bothering with rotary dials for Crowley. 

Never mind that touch-tone phones weren’t yet commercially available. Or that the place they had been introduced, in April 1962, was the Seattle World’s Fair, 4,700 miles away. Never mind, also, that the Post Office had no idea that there was telephone service at Crowley’s flat.

Crowley had wanted to talk to Aziraphale, so he’d picked up his new phone and punched out a series of musical tones. Three quarters of a mile away, down Grosvenor Street, past Sotheby’s, across Regent Street and a couple of blocks to the right, the angel had answered. 

“Frozen solid,” said Crowley, angling his head close to the window and peering out, as if he could see through the buildings, across St. James Park, to Westminster Palace and the river beyond.

“Frozen solid,” Aziraphale echoed. “Have you been out to see it?”

“Nah. Streets are buried, I’d have to put boots on. Heard about it on the radio.” 

There was static at the other end of the line, as Aziraphale put down his handset and crossed the room to turn the radio dial. The sound of a news announcer came on, faint in the background. It wasn’t time for the news, not that that mattered. Over in Crowley’s flat, BBC Radio’s Easy Beat was spinning “Venus in Blue Jeans.” A few minutes ago it had been “Let’s Dance,” which was at least more bearable, but it was a lazy sort of day. He could have changed the channel with a wave of his hand, but he couldn’t be bothered. 

Aziraphale was back. “It’s only upstream,” he said. 

“Oh, not all the way down? I must have heard wrong.” The falling snow made the world look fuzzy, soft. It blurred the shapes of the buildings across the street.

Down the phone line, Aziraphale sighed. “Remember 1814?”

“The last Frost Fair,” Crowley said. 

“Brunswick Mum,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could taste it, black beer brewed not just with wheat and oatmeal but with fir tips, cardamom, a half-dozen other herbs tossed in. And the whole thing ice-cold, because what other temperature would it be when the weather hadn’t been above freezing for a fortnight.

Crowley twirled the phone cord around one finger, remembering. “1683,” he said.

“A whole street on the river,” Aziraphale sighed. 

Crowley could imagine the snow coming down on the street in front of the bookshop, dusting the sign above the door. The angel was probably sitting in his favorite chair in the back room, safe from the weather, a cup of tea in the hand that wasn’t holding the phone.

“Can you see the snow?” he asked, wanting to know for sure.

“Not just now. I’m on the phone in the back room, the cord doesn’t stretch that far. There were horse races from shore to shore, remember? And those tents with the, er--”

Crowley, alone in his flat, couldn’t help smiling. “Don’t pretend to be scandalized, angel. The Bible’s full of that stuff.”

“Yes, well. There are _rules._”

“Made to be broken,” Crowley said, and he could picture Aziraphale, three quarters of a mile and a billion snowflakes away, trying to look stern. “You think there will ever be another one?”

“Another Frost Fair?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.” There was a silence, and then Aziraphale said, “Meet you there, if there is?”

“Definitely. Hey angel, I’m going to make some tea. You want some?”

“I’ve got a cup right here. But you make yours, and I’ll wait. Come back to the phone, and we can have our tea together.”


End file.
